My Story: Part 1

I was born and raised in Southern California, to parents who were also SoCal natives. We lived in a small town; they do exist here.  For the most part, my brother and I grew up comfortably unaware of life’s difficulties. Day-to-day our biggest concerns related to the outcome of our upcoming soccer games.  In contrast to this low-stress upbringing, our extended family had one irritatingly frequent companion.  In the seventh grade I lost my Aunt Lorna to breast cancer.  It was particularly tragic as she left behind a five-year-old daughter. Years later, we lost my Aunt Eileen to the same disease. She left behind two children. During each of their battles my aunts and my mom would rally around their families. They provided care for their sister, drove the kids to and from events, and cooked every meal. I have memories of them singing Milli Vanilli, or Bette Midler classics to their sisters. When cancer came knocking on my own mom’s door, the sisters didn’t miss a beat.  They filled the waiting room of the hospital as mom had a lumpectomy performed (benign). Four years ago, my mom saw a gynecologist about some abnormal symptoms.  As she underwent testing, it was revealed that my mom had endometrial cancer. Coming from this family with an extensive history of breast cancer the idea of cancer wasn’t shocking. 

The Diagnosis:

In our family it’s not a question of IF we get cancer, it is WHEN. Having lost two aunts on my mom’s side to breast cancer, and two more of my mom’s sisters having survived breast cancer this seemed a familiar battle.  Especially with new innovative treatments; robotic surgery, more precise radiation, and mountains of research to help us, she would be fine. The first step in treatment was a total hysterectomy. We met the doctor after surgery in a tiny meeting room and he explained that mom had Stage 3C endometrial cancer. “She’s young and we will do all we can to fight this.”   UMMM WAIT HOLD UP…what does that even mean?  (Piece of advice…don’t Google it, it’s not beneficial)

My dad immediately left the surgical center after receiving this news because he needed time to process.  Truthfully, it irritated me that he left, but I quickly learned that some people need space to process.  My brother and I sat on a bench outside, as if being outside and breathing fresh air would help our lungs from deflating.  I can tell you, the feeling that a concrete block was on my chest did not go away for a long time. My brother paced the parking lot, his face covered in tears. My aunt sat inside, making all too familiar phone calls to her sisters to let them know to prepare for battle.  I, however, sat there stunned…no tears, out of breath.  A voice in my head screaming, “IT IS NOT OKAY ANYMORE.”  I think this is when my faith in God, a good God, cracked just the tiniest bit. Another voice in my head began to whisper, and I’m sure it was my mom saying, “This process will be hard. You are not the only one to go through this, and you will not be the last.”  I decided then to focus solely on my mom’s wellbeing…mine could wait (not the healthiest way, but I realize now this was me just slipping into survival mode. This lasted for the next year and a half of treatment.).

The Battle:

We left the hospital with a plan: four chemo treatments, radiation, and four more chemo treatments.  The plan seemed like a good one. I believed this plan would work.  One week after her catheter was placed, we ended up in the ER for sepsis.  We should have known then that this road was going to be challenging. The portable catheter was infected. We needed a new one, which meant yet another surgery. In the next weeks and months that followed, my mom always complained about her chest hurting to anyone who would listen. The doctors insisted the pain stemmed from the trauma of having two catheters placed.  

We went through the first four rounds of chemo like champs, we had a system, I brought snacks and books, my dad was able to get away, and mom napped. Radiation was a breeze! We started to believe that she was going to be fine. But, the last four chemotherapy treatments stopped us in our tracks.  Almost without fail, we’d arrive at the infusion center, they’d do a quick check up, then call an ambulance because her blood counts were critically low.  Off to the hospital for a blood transfusion, only to return to the infusion center two days later to receive chemo. It was then that doubt began to creep into all of our minds.  Mom no longer had the energy to walk; she used a walker, until a wheelchair became necessary.  After her last chemo treatment, she rang the bell.  We thought the battle had been won.  We rejoiced, now all she needed was to rest.  

Rest:

My husband and I took our kids on vacation to Walt Disney World. My kids needed a break, and honestly, I couldn’t remember the last time we all had been together just us four.  They had watched me spend hours each day for a year with my mom, taking her to and from appointments, making phone calls on her behalf, explaining to family members what is happening while remaining upbeat.  My daughter, who was 18 months at the time, spent a lot of time in care of others or hanging with her iPad so that I could devote my time to my mom. Izzy was not getting the attention she needed.  She needed time with us. We needed to reassure our kids, and this vacation was supposed to be a great time.

The Gut Punch:

While in Florida, my parents began to ignore my phone calls. I knew something was up.  So much so that I physically began vomiting and I couldn’t even go to the amusement parks with the kids one of the days.  Eventually they answered and told me my mom was in the emergency department for another blood transfusion.  My mind was racing, the neon sign in my brain was playing this phrase on repeat: “Treatment was over, she should be getting better.” The pain in her chest was unbearable. When I got home from Florida, mom wasn’t feeling well and insisted we go in to the ER, and she kept saying she thought she was dying. The reality is, she was dying.  I pushed for imaging, and the results came back that the cancer had metastasized; it was everywhere.  They were so sorry they missed this; the biggest tumor was in her chest!

We had a follow up appointment with her doctor the next day.  He gave us the news: Stage 4 metastatic endometrial adenocarcinoma. He told us she probably had a year to live and referred us to palliative care. My mom never walked again.  I wheeled her out, we went home, put her in bed and she never got out again.  

In the end:

She lasted 9 weeks after that late May day.  The first three weeks we managed. As a family we could no longer care for her safely; my dad was handicapped, my brother was at work, and I just could just barely physically keep up.  So, we called in reinforcements. The last six weeks of her life our family circled around us, they were there every day, they cooked meals, they cleaned, and they got along. I was still in shock over what was happening! How is it that I did everything I knew to be right, and God still allowed this to happen? My faith more than fractured at this time, it broke! She passed away on August 7, 2016.